


Torpor

by Promethea (Aerosol)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, I Don't Even Know, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Scriddler, Scriddler Drabble, Torpor, What Was I Thinking?, a lil from all above, a lil love, a lil sad, drabble?, riddlecrow, this I know at least lol, train rides are long, wrote this in the train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-14 10:53:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7168178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerosol/pseuds/Promethea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I hated his eyes on me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Torpor

I hated his eyes on me.

Hated how his gaze slid upon my skin with this sharp vulgarity of a knife, the cryptic evaluation of someone in need to be evaluated and I was not. It made me feel hollow, laid bare like glass or porcelain though I had never been clean enough for both. I was far from those things, still his look lingered on deeper layers than my flesh. It crawled and marked my bones, cut inside the marrow and stuck, growing claws around my lungs, then my heart. Poking straw into my throat.

What amusement he found there I’d never know. I could have asked him but I didn’t. I had no words to explain how it felt. No answer to the conundrum I called emotion. No response to this look directed on me like I was different. Like I was… inhuman. One of his kind.

I hated his eyes on me. But, strange as it was, it didn’t mean I wanted them to look elsewhere. Didn’t want them to change their focus. I hated that too. I hated it more. Those were my eyes to look at me. To count every step I walked on the pavement, read every movement of my lips as I spoke, reflect the various expressions on my slowly aging face. It was their task to say I was beautiful when I bled. That I was strong when I screamed. That it was not my fault but theirs. Theirs. That they knew.

Those were my eyes.

Mine.

Mine.

When I closed them at last, lost and blind and carved in torpor, they were mine too. Though they didn’t look at me this time. They never looked anywhere again but through.

Yet I felt them on my back as I left his corpse and sirens cracked the air. His gaze sliding upon my skin with this sharp vulgarity of a knife, the cryptic evaluation of someone in need to be evaluated and maybe I was. Maybe I was. We both were.

I started to run as the familiar feeling of hollowness took shape inside, cluttering my brain.

And I hated it all the more.

**Author's Note:**

> A lil thingy I wrote in the train and found again while scrolling through my archive. Maybe you like it :)


End file.
